Clemence eBook

“Just as I expected,” said Mrs. Hardyng.
“The true state of the case is this: that
woman is a jealous, narrow-minded, illiberal creature,
with a tongue ‘hung in the middle.’
She wanted to get you there simply to satisfy her
own idle curiosity, and insult you with her insolent
patronage. You have made another enemy, and that
is all there is of it.”

“I hope it will prove all there is of it,”
said Clemence, uneasily. “I am sure I owe
her no ill will, and I can’t imagine why any
body should wish to injure me, for I try not to offend
them, but simply wish to mind my own business, and
allow others to do the same.”

Mrs. Hardyng laughed musically. “Why, child,
that is the supreme cause of all your unpopularity.
You mind your own business too much for these good
people. You are not as old as I am, and you seem
to have got a one-sided view of matters and things
generally. I dare say, at this moment your unsophisticated
mind harbors some such creed as this, that if you
pursue your own poor and worthy way in meekness and
humility, without obtruding yourself upon other people’s
notice—­in short, only ask to be left in
peace to follow the bent of your own harmless inclination,
that you do not ask what it is impossible to accomplish.
But you are mistaken. There is no one so poor
and humble but what these little great people will
find time to criticise and find fault with whatever
they may undertake. So, no matter how modest and
unobtrusive you are, by comporting yourself in a dignified
and lady-like manner, you offer an affront to these
people, who, though themselves deficient in every
attribute of politeness and good breeding, yet are
sufficiently instructed by their dulled instincts,
to realize your infinite superiority, and hate you
accordingly.”

“Why, Ulrica,” said Clemence, startled
by her friend’s vehemence, “you quite
overwhelm me. I wish, though,” she added;
with a sigh, “that I could doubt the truthfulness
of the picture.”

CHAPTER XII.

“What are you doing there, Clemence?”
asked her friend; “not destroying that pretty
article, I hope.”

“Yes and no,” was the reply. “Upon
examination, I find that it has become quite soiled,
and thought I would make another frame to put these
same flowers into.”

“Now, that is really too bad, making you so
much extra trouble when you are feeling so ill.
I noticed, though, that it had lost its freshness
and purity—­looking, in fact, as if some
careless servant had swept on it.”

“I presume that is the case,” said Clemence;
“any way, it is completely ruined now.”

“What can this mean?” she exclaimed, a
moment after, holding up a lady’s gold pin.
“Is it not somewhat remarkable to find an article
of this description here?”